David Gemmell - Knights of Dark Renown

‘You do not look well, my Lord,’ she said.

His muttered reply was short and brutal. Laughter burst from Morrigan.

‘My dear Groundsel, how could you use such language in front of a lady? A Knight of the Gabala should always be courteous. Shall we go inside?’

Groundsel stood and led his horse through the gateway. As they passed under the portcullis, he stopped and looked up. ‘Rusted solid,’ he said. ‘What sort of fool allows his defences to fall into such disrepair?’

‘I don’t know,’ she replied sweetly. ‘Perhaps the man is a peasant. He probably doesn’t understand knightly ways. You could instruct him, Groundsel.’

His eyes were cold as he approached her. ‘You seem intent on making me angry, bitch. That is not wise.’

‘Have I offended you? Oh, I am sorry, dear Groundsel. Perhaps we should kiss and become friends again?’

‘I would sooner kiss the rear end of my horse,’ he snapped.

‘Well, your experience is obviously greater than mine in such matters — but I pity the horse.’ She dragged on her reins and cantered into the Citadel. Nothing moved, the fortress seemed deserted.

She headed her mount towards the High Keep and halted before the steps to the double doors. Groundsel rode alongside her.

‘There’s nobody here,’ he said. ‘What in Hell’s name happened?’

‘They are inside,’ she told him.

‘How do you know?’

Morrigan shook her head and dismounted, wondering how he would react if she told him she could sense their blood, warm and promising. Mounting the steps, she banged her mailed fist against the door.

‘Bucklar!’ she called. ‘You have visitors.’

The left-hand door slid open, creaking on its hinges. ‘Don’t go in!’ called Groundsel, dragging his longsword clear. ‘I don’t like this at all.’

‘Then stay outside,’ she advised. She stepped into the cool interior and smiled at the woman who stood holding the bent bow, the arrow aimed at Morrigan’s face. ‘Do not fear me,’ she said. ‘I am here with a message from Llaw Gyffes.’ Behind the woman were several children, one of whom held a curved dagger. Movement came from the shadows to left and right and Morrigan swung her head. There were some twenty women in the hall; their eyes were frightened, their manner tense and expectant. Then Groundsel entered, grinned and sheathed his blade.

‘Wonderful!’ he said. ‘We’ve ridden for days to find a fortress of women and children. How many will want to join Llaw’s army, do you think?’

‘Who are you?’ asked the woman with the bow, easing the string forward and lowering her weapon. Morrigan noted that the arrow was still notched and could be loosed in an instant.

‘I am Morrigan. The ape in the armour is Groundsel. We are looking for Bucklar. The King’s army is about to attack us in the south and we were hoping Bucklar could send some men to aid us.’

‘No,’ the woman said, ‘he won’t do that. He can’t. We are already under attack. A force has invaded the forest from Pertia Port and wiped out two settlements. My husband — and almost all of the men — have gone after them.’

‘What a genius,’ said Groundsel. ‘Leaving his home base undefended. Come on, Morrigan, let’s go.’

‘You leave if you wish,’ said Morrigan, ‘but I have had enough of sleeping on the ground, with ants crawling inside my armour. I intend to stay here the night — and take a bath.’

Groundsel approached her. ‘I may not be a Knight by birth, Morrigan, but neither was I born a fool. This is not a fortress, it’s a tomb. There’s only one way out — over that bridge. And if the enemy gets here before Bucklar returns, everyone here will be slaughtered. Is a bath worth the risk?’

‘You worry too much,’ she told him.

‘Your insults are easier to bear than your stupidity,’ he retorted and, turning on his heel, he strode from the hall and mounted his stallion. His helm was hanging from the pommel and he eased it into place. What a useless mission, he thought, as he rode from the portcullis gate. Four days in the company of a harridan and nothing to show for it.

He swallowed hard as his horse walked out on to the gently swaying bridge and steeled himself to stare straight ahead. The boards beneath the horse creaked and groaned, the chains to left and right of him grating. Safely on the other side he angled his white stallion up the hill and into the trees, halting to stare back at the Citadel. Morrigan was right, he knew. He was a peasant — and worse, he was a murderer and a thief. How amusing he must seem to her and the other patricians. A movement came on the hillside opposite, and he saw a young boy walk out of the undergrowth with a small grey dog beside him. Now that was a good age to be, thought Groundsel, remembering the early years of his youth, when he had played with the master’s hounds, and all the summers were lifetime long and golden and the winters bright with cold magic. He grinned, thinking of the golden-haired child he had saved from the snow. It would be nice to watch her grow in Cithaeron, to see her dance and sing and play. Why waste time on this doomed war? Morrigan’s words lashed at him.

‘The ape in the armour is Groundsel…’

A month ago he would have killed her for those words, and thought nothing of it.

Suddenly the boy darted down the hillside and raced on to the bridge, the dog running beside him. Groundsel swung in the saddle. Back along the road w some thirty soldiers, marching two abreast towards the Citadel.

Groundsel chuckled. ‘Have a good bath, Morrigan, nxy sweet,’ he whispered. He could see movement on th walls of the Citadel; several women were gathering at the gate towers, armed with bows and quivers of arrrows. The soldiers marched to the bridge and halted. L their packs, they dropped them at the roadside and untied the small round shields that were bmickled to them. Finally the officer gathered his men atround him, giving instructions.

‘Be interested to see how you are going to handle this, Morrigan,’ murmured Groundsel.

The soldiers surged on to the bridge and ran forward, holding their shields before them. Groundsel could see that the few archers on the battlements would not stop them. Sunlight sparkled from Morrigan’s silver armour as she stepped into sight, sword in hand.

‘You’ve got pluck, at least,’ owned Groundsel.

Seeing her before them, the soldiers slowed their charge. Arrows thudded into their shields, or bounced from breastplates and helms. One man went down with a shaft in his thigh. But the rest ran on.

Morrigan sprang to meet them, her longsword slicing murderously through a wooden shield and half-severing the arm beneath. The warrior screamed and hurled himself away from the silver figure, tripping to fall in front of his comrades. Several men tumbled over him and the charge faltered. Morrigan’s sword rose and fell in the melee, cutting through armour, skin and bone. Several blades bounced from her own armour, but no blade touched her flesh. Five men were down before the attackers regained their composure and Morrigan was forced back, step by step, towards the wider portcullis gate, where they could get behind her and bear her down.

Groundsel decided to watch until she was overpowered. The sound of advancing hoofbeats came to him. Back along the road was a rider… a rider in crimson armour. Groundsel’s eyes narrowed.

‘Poor Morrigan,’ he thought, and was about to swing his horse and ride away when a series of images flashed into his mind: the child on the hillside; Morrigan in her silver armour, her white horse behind her in the gateway; and now the Red Knight. The words of the Dagda cut into him like hot knives.

‘He too will die in the spring. I see a horse, a white horse. And a rider in shining silver. And a child on a hillside. The demons are gathering, and a great storm will descend on the forest. But Groundsel will not see it.’